Since he lost Rodney, John hasn't dreamt about him once. At least, not that he remembers, and he usually remembers most or all of his dreams.
He saw it happen, he saw Rodney walk through a doorway and simply vanish, and he's always thought that kind of thing would be worth at least a nightmare or two, but apparently he was wrong.
On the other hand, the waking portions of John's last three months have been sheer hell, starting first thing every morning when he wakes up and discovers afresh that the other side of the bed is cold for the simple reason that he's slept alone. And he still hunts through the city sometimes, hoping against hope that it's all an elaborate prank and Rodney is going to jump out from behind the next pillar, shove him against the wall, and kiss the daylights out of him.
It hasn't happened yet, but John keeps trying.
And still his dreams, for some reason, are utterly Rodney-free.
At least, they have been until tonight.
Tonight, John dreams that he is awoken by the faint swish of his bedroom door and that, when he sits up in bed to complain, it's Rodney's silhouette he sees against the light in the corridor. The door slides shut again, and Rodney walks over and sits down on the edge of the bed without saying a word.
It's terribly vivid-- John can even hear the mattress squeak faintly-- but he knows it's a dream, because Rodney's gone. Which means he can't be sitting on John's bed.
"John?" Rodney whispers. "Are you awake?"
"It's not you," John blurts out. "You're not coming back. I'm dreaming, this isn't real--"
Rodney leans down and cuts him off with a brief kiss. "Maybe not," he whispers against John's mouth. "But we can always pretend."
There's a familiar, mocking tone to his voice that makes John smile, whatever may or may not be possible or true, but before he can answer their lips meet again. This time the kiss is long and sweet and desperate, and by the time it finally ends they're both naked under the covers and rubbing together in a way John hasn't felt in far too long.
John lets out a soft moan and arches up, trying to grind his aching cock even harder against Rodney's. Rodney pushes back, face buried in the crook of John's shoulder, and John feels a wetness there that he knows isn't sweat.
But it's okay-- he thinks he might be crying too, because he's never felt anything more real than this in his life.
Still, when they're both spent and the tears have been kissed away, John has to ask: "What if I wake up?"
"It doesn't matter." Rodney drops a light kiss on John's ear. "I'll still be here when you do."